Around my neck hangs a medal of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It's been there since June of 2004, when my Dad gave it to me as a birthday present. Those who knew my Dad might say, "Oh that's nice" before scratching their heads and back tracking a bit. The confusion would not lie in my Dad giving me a birthday gift; it would lie in the fact that my Dad passed away in March of 2004-nine years ago today, to be exact.
This is going to sound crazy, but bear with me, dear reader. I might be a rational scientist type of person, but I do believe in the sweet hereafter.
Earlier that year, my Mom was in the hospital for some time, recovering from surgery. That episode wasn't too surprising, but it did scare us all a bit. It wasn't the first time we had dealt with serious illness with our parents, but like all the other times before, we hoped it would be the last. The time came for me to go back to grad school, only a state away, but far enough to be too far. Wanting to leave something for my Mom that might bring her comfort, I picked up a Blessed Virgin Mary medal from the hospital gift shop and left it on her night stand before departing.
Not long after that, just a day after my Mom was released from he hospital, my Dad got the hankering to go outside and ready the yard for spring planting. It was early March and just starting to warm up. My Dad never took to winter hibernation very well. He liked to be outside. It's almost as if his soul belonged to the dirt that he transformed into beautiful and fruitful gardens each year. He would sit at the window in the dining room each day. Even while reading the paper, he'd look up every now and then to see what was happening outside in his other world.
But while his soul was eager to spring back to life, his heart needed a rest. He passed away that day, while toiling out in the yard. Doing what he loved.
A few months passed and I was still trying to come to terms with what happened. I started dreaming about my family--the way we were and the way we might be. In one dream, my parents came to visit us in Indiana. It was my birthday and my Dad was eager to give me a present. I didn't understand in my dream why he was so emotional about it. That was so out of character. I opened the box and in it was a Blessed Virgin Mary Medal. He told me that it was "Mom's" and then he wore it and now he wanted me to have it. Okay. No biggie. I can wear a medal. Now calm down, Dad, before you make us both uncomfortable.
I told my dream to my Mom. It was so vivid and real that I felt my Dad was trying to tell me something. She asked me to describe the medal and then it hit me that it was the same kind I had left on her night stand. What she told me next validated my belief in the sweet hereafter. While she was still in the hospital, my Dad would come each day and be with her. He had been looking worn down with worry. Spying the medal on the night stand, he asked if she had planned on wearing it. My Mom already had several medals and gladly gave it to my Dad, who wore it until the day he died.
I had no idea.
After the emotional exchange, my Mom said quietly, "I think your Dad wants you to have this medal. He's giving it to you." And so he did. In his shy, quiet, men-should-not-get-emotional way, my Dad gave me the medal that was "Mom's" and then his. And now it is mine--but not wholly. It belongs to the dirt that stained his hands, the plants and flowers that painted the yard and fed his family, the wife and mother who stood beside him all those years, the kids who carry his memory.
It belongs to my Father.
This is going to sound crazy, but bear with me, dear reader. I might be a rational scientist type of person, but I do believe in the sweet hereafter.
Earlier that year, my Mom was in the hospital for some time, recovering from surgery. That episode wasn't too surprising, but it did scare us all a bit. It wasn't the first time we had dealt with serious illness with our parents, but like all the other times before, we hoped it would be the last. The time came for me to go back to grad school, only a state away, but far enough to be too far. Wanting to leave something for my Mom that might bring her comfort, I picked up a Blessed Virgin Mary medal from the hospital gift shop and left it on her night stand before departing.
Not long after that, just a day after my Mom was released from he hospital, my Dad got the hankering to go outside and ready the yard for spring planting. It was early March and just starting to warm up. My Dad never took to winter hibernation very well. He liked to be outside. It's almost as if his soul belonged to the dirt that he transformed into beautiful and fruitful gardens each year. He would sit at the window in the dining room each day. Even while reading the paper, he'd look up every now and then to see what was happening outside in his other world.
But while his soul was eager to spring back to life, his heart needed a rest. He passed away that day, while toiling out in the yard. Doing what he loved.
A few months passed and I was still trying to come to terms with what happened. I started dreaming about my family--the way we were and the way we might be. In one dream, my parents came to visit us in Indiana. It was my birthday and my Dad was eager to give me a present. I didn't understand in my dream why he was so emotional about it. That was so out of character. I opened the box and in it was a Blessed Virgin Mary Medal. He told me that it was "Mom's" and then he wore it and now he wanted me to have it. Okay. No biggie. I can wear a medal. Now calm down, Dad, before you make us both uncomfortable.
I told my dream to my Mom. It was so vivid and real that I felt my Dad was trying to tell me something. She asked me to describe the medal and then it hit me that it was the same kind I had left on her night stand. What she told me next validated my belief in the sweet hereafter. While she was still in the hospital, my Dad would come each day and be with her. He had been looking worn down with worry. Spying the medal on the night stand, he asked if she had planned on wearing it. My Mom already had several medals and gladly gave it to my Dad, who wore it until the day he died.
I had no idea.
After the emotional exchange, my Mom said quietly, "I think your Dad wants you to have this medal. He's giving it to you." And so he did. In his shy, quiet, men-should-not-get-emotional way, my Dad gave me the medal that was "Mom's" and then his. And now it is mine--but not wholly. It belongs to the dirt that stained his hands, the plants and flowers that painted the yard and fed his family, the wife and mother who stood beside him all those years, the kids who carry his memory.
It belongs to my Father.